Lead Us Not Into Temptation
by Rosette-Cullen
Summary: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
1. Here Comes the Bride

**A/N: I've been away from fanfiction for a good while under personal and familial issues. This is my subdued version of therapy.**

**I want to thank my readers and many friends that have helped me through this rough month since something extremely unexpected and horrible happened. I have found unbelievable support in this fandom and the incredible women within it.**

**Some asked via PMs or reviews if I still keep in touch with the fandom and yes, I do it through Twitter. Link is on my profile.**

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**(Here Comes the Bride)**

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The Grim Reaper sits precariously on its pedestal just below the gates of Heaven of and Hell. In its life it had been the first mortal die, encompassed by black tar as it ran from predators. There was no ultimatum, no choice of Eternal Bliss or Eternal Pain; it had been forced into purgatory for all of eternity.

The fog of a new arrival swirls thickly through the marshlands that it thrives in. The Grim Reaper enjoys this part the most. Inside the dirty marsh pool a scene bubbles and it jumps from its spot in front of the gate.

A young blonde woman walks hurriedly back home after a night of fun with her friend. She thinks of how her life will not be the same with a new fiancée. The Grim Reaper sits back on the charcoal like floor and sticks its hand into the bubbling water. The woman turns her head sharply, suddenly alert.

The Grim Reaper bristles in excitement as five men stalk behind her, drunk on fine liquor and hormones. She yells and the man who is her fiancée coos to her, but she is running quickly, the drunks following hurriedly behind her.

In a few seconds her scalp is bloody and hair is ripped away, her dress is torn into shreds. Even though she is being pawed at she thinks of how much she enjoyed the dress while she had it and how her mother would yell for the damage. She never stops fighting, even when the men decide to play their games.

The Grim Reaper waits for her arrival. She lies on the ground, panting away her life with a few last futile breaths to live. She wants to live, she will give anything to be saved, but her mind prepares her for death as her heart begins its crescendo into oblivion.

She shudders and fades, then she drifts through the tides and splits down the alternate path. The Grim Reaper stands to greet the newly arriving soul.

She has shadows under her eyes, her human beauty means nothing. Neither Heaven nor Hell wants her now and the Reaper must make the decision while she endures the purgatory test.

"Welcome," the Reapers calls urgently. The girl turns her head and shivers to her knees. She calls for her mother and father; invisible tears ache to leave her gaunt eyes.

"Where am I?" she wails and scrambles to her feet, moving away from the Reaper. It moves closer, unamused by her victim ways.

"Purgatory," it answers.

"Why am I here?" she snaps and brushes the black dust off her long ivory dress. The material is ripped and splintered with blood but she treats it reverently.

"Heaven and Hell cannot take you without my sole judgment. I will give you your ultimatums." The Reaper steps forward and her eyes grow wide as she looks at its shrouded face covered in a veil.

"D-don't," she stutters desperately. "I can't take another man—"

The Reaper lets out a short bark of laughter and pulls the hood from around its face. The pale fleshy face is smooth and unblemished. There is no giveaway to what gender it is or was. The woman gasps and her body shakes more at the sight of a human figure with nothing more than an expanse of skin.

"I am neither male nor female," the Reaper says to her. It has unveiled itself to many humans before; it has become a normal occurrence.

"What are my choices?" she trembles with each word and hopes that she can leave this place. It reminds her of the wine cellar back home. She found a large arachnid when she was a child and the door had locked when she fled from it.

The Reaper places the veil back and shrouds the smooth flesh into darkness once more. The girl can concentrate once again on the task at hand instead of the large figure before her. She tries to shake off the resemblance to the men, shaded by the dark twists of buildings and trees. Her mind goes to a small apothecary less than thirty feet from where she was attacked, it was the only one left—maybe even in the world. She could have killed herself, but instead her fate was left to ogres.

"The afterlife waits for you; I can send you through the Golden Gates." A shapeless hand points towards the arches of an ominous gate. "You can let the other side determine whether you move to heaven or hell, or you can seek retribution."

Her eyes flame. "Retribution?"

The Reaper shifts in excitement. "Yes, retribution. If you so choose I can send you back and allow you to take revenge into your own hands." As if she understands the concept she looks to her palms and flexes her fists in power. "You can punish those who have hurt you. But…"

"But what? I want to do that option. There's no guarantee I'll go to Heaven anyway, right?"

"If you seek retribution and act upon it, you will be sent Hell."

She remains silent, pondering that thought as the Reaper sits, ecstatic at the game that is about to be played. She looks into its face, and nods only once, but it is enough.

--

Rosalie Hale walks onto the earth, the Reaper following behind her as she returns to the spot where her body lies bruised and battered. A woman came across it hours ago and now her parents arrive in their sleek town car to call identification to it. They quickly leave and have the coroners take care of the body.

She bristles with anger when Royce—her fiancée—sobs uncontrollably for her death, only to return to his room and meditate on how to get away with the murder. Rosalie sits in the corner, watching him with black eyes. He calls his friends together and they meet at a pub.

The Reaper looms over her, keeping her mind calm and telling her to wait until she's positive she wants to make the trade. They all laugh over their drinks, never bringing up the murder of the young heiress. Rosalie is shaking with her rage and her thoughts race with a theatrical revenge.

"I want to do it," she hisses to the Reaper, eyes blazing with determination.

The Reaper backs away and lets her do what she needs to. She has a plan for each man, her goal is to shock each one into death, but she has a special plan for her former love. Rosalie breathes in deeply and laughs darkly, following the first to leave the bar. She can't even remember his name, but she remembers his face, his hands smelling of sweat and shoe polish.

His wife is on the couch when he arrives home, panting and groaning as her swollen belly jumps up and down. The drunkard sees it as a call for him to crawl between her legs which are wide open and twitching. He unbuttons his pants but the housemaid runs into the room and hands him a water basin.

"She's gone into labor!" the maid shrieks and pats a cool washcloth to her head.

The man finally gets his head together and remembers that he is married, that his wife is having his child and that he raped another woman last night. He feels no regret for it, though. The scotch in his belly makes him feel warm and innocent.

She knows immediately what she wants to do. His wife had been a schoolmate when she was younger. She had cut Rosalie's silken hair when she wore it in a braid. She helped the boys mash dead frogs into her desk and trip her in the stores. Rosalie finds a grin spreading across her face knowing that the two of them will be stuck together in eternal matrimony.

The Grim Reaper agrees and gives her what she needs, and then leaves to watch from its pedestal. She crawls inside the woman, the pain of Rosalie's small invasion unnoticed by the contraction fire sprinting up her spine. The woman screams and arches at the unknown invasion and the force of which she pushes the child out.

Her husband sits by, pouring a glass of alcohol for himself and watching with a grimace as the doctor arrives and prepares for delivery. He wishes he had stayed at the bar. He doesn't want to associate this child with the gore that is about to come spewing from a woman he's known no longer than a year. He only formed a relationship with her for her sister. He took her to balls and spent time with her to grow closer to her fair skinned, beautiful sister. But he had been forced into a marriage with a woman he didn't love, having many affairs on the side to cover up the pain of losing his first and only love.

His wife screams a disjointed wail as she pushes the child from between her legs. She sighs when it slips, but a shining crown of skin does not appear. He drops his glass to the floor and backs into the wall as a stream of long, flowing gold hairs drops with birth secretion. A woman emerges from her womb and the mother goes pale, all blood rushing from her opening where the figure comes into view, holding the crying child in her dead arms.

Rosalie's face is twisted in disgust and smug relief as the woman she is sliding from screams in agony and disbelief. She passes out from shock and the blood coming out is enough to kill her.

She turns her head to the male who is backed toward the wall. He watches the woman who is dead—who he saw laying unmoving with rats swarming her skinned knees only hours earlier, naked and glistening with his newborn child cradled in her arms. She glares at him, snapping the umbilical cord and laughing riotously at him. He is in shock, unable to speak and slides to the floor, his heart racing and racing until his body stills and he is dead with the sudden pause of his heart.

Rosalie moves from the carnage that she is set in and places the baby warmly in a white blanket lying on the doctor's lap. He is shaking and she has no choice but to kill him. She sets the baby girl down in a crib and listens to it cry.

She wants to take it with her. She wishes the child had died so she could keep it, fawn over its warmth and life a little longer. But she feels the insistent tug, she only has a matter of time to do what she needs to and there is no sense in wasting it.

She drops the baby gently, sliding a cold dead finger over its cherubic face and walks away. She hears the maid come in from the kitchen and the resounding scream that masks the babies.

--

Rosalie finds herself looking in on the man who did unholy things with his fingers while another plunged into her. He was the third person to take his turn the night of her murder. He sits a table with a young woman, acting bashful as she gently touches his fingers.

He plans on having her tonight, he feels dirty losing his virginity to a woman he raped. He doesn't like that word, but Royce told him that's what they'd done and he's come to accept it. He was taught to treat ladies kindly, but his alcohol consumption made his decision blurred and the promise of pleasure that he'd only experienced in the tub late at night was thrilling.

He thrives at parties, loves the limelight that he is given. He is next in line to take over his father's business. He wants a woman who will give him the pleasure he felt nights ago. He wants a willing partner, someone tight and soft.

Rosalie doesn't like looking at his face. He has a naturally smug look and it angers her. She never liked this man. Royce brought him over for poker and he would leer at her when she passed to bring them drinks. He came into her room one night; looking at her while she slept. When she woke up he walked backwards to the door and left.

She feels mentally weak after her previous night's work, but she wants him gone, made a spectacle of in his home environment. He moves upstairs when the girl says she will be willing to try things with him, that she trusts his intentions.

She hangs loosely from his arm, nervous and jittery. Before he turns into the darkness of an unlocked room, Rosalie throws her backwards into another room and places her arm over his. He tries to light a candle, but she grabs his hand.

"You're so cold," he whispers.

She pushes him back to the bed, grabbing lace gloves from the vanity. He undresses quickly, pulling his clothes from his body and experiments in touching himself to prepare. Rosalie is disgusted but lets him continue. This will be the last time he felt pleasure.

"I want you to get on your hands and knees," she whispers, making her voice a falsetto to match the other girl's timid voice.

He quickly turns, his erect penis dangling between his thighs. Rosalie finds herself curious, but remembers the pain of losing her virginity and the way they had all disregarded her feelings. She smiles to herself. She had been violated, so would he.

"Have you ever been with a woman?" she murmurs quietly.

"Um… once," he answers nervously. "It was nothing special."

She seethes. "Did you finish?" she restrains her hiss.

"Yes," he sighs.

"Was she a virgin?"

"Yes."

"Did you know that virgins feel pain their first time?" Her jaw is shaking as she relives every moment. He remains silent. "They do."

"I wasn't her first. I will be very gentle with you, I will be the absolute gentleman," he vows. His hips begin to rock forward into the air. The position makes him open and exposed.

She grabs a parasol from beside the bed, spitting on the handle to make it slippery. Without a warning she has sodomized his rectum with the handle. He gasps and screams, worming to get away, but she pushes it further, grinning at his discomfort.

"Please stop, Anne!" he screams. "What are you doing? Stop!" His panic is almost tangible on her fingertips. She laughs and begins to thrust it in and out.

He begins to pant and she notices that he… that he has started to rock into it. He moans loudly, his pain still obvious, but his penis has gone from flaccid to erect again. It strains and she is disgusted once more.

"You pig!" At her sudden change in voice he squeals and turns, his bleeding anus staining the sheets.

He finally sees Rosalie and immediately his penis shrivels as if he has been dunked in the cold pool at the county fair. His lips and teeth move and he bites his tongue. Blood flows over his lips like wine and he chokes on it. Rosalie watches in amusement as he sputters and chokes and then she begins to cackle. He had ended up killing himself after all.

She grabs his body and drags him through the hall, tying a cord around his waist and unceremoniously dropping him into the middle of the partygoers. There are screams and gasps, cries of all kinds and Rosalie sighs in the beauty of a corpse, hanging over the balcony with a parasol sticking out from his rear.

--

Royce has long received the message that his friends are being attacked. He has gone into hiding at his mansion. He's hired the best security team in country and has hound dogs surrounding every acre. She looks forward to killing him, thinks about it almost constantly.

On the third day of her death she goes after the two brothers. The eldest had forced himself into her mouth, dirty and disgusting until he spilled over her cheeks. She remembers biting him and the pain of him grabbing her throat and choking her. That was why she died, her windpipe had been crushed and the bleeding had been extensive.

The two brothers are only eighteen, only just turned into men. Their mother is in the garden with her friends, introducing them to young women looking for husbands and ripe for family. The girls are nervous around the two brothers. They've been known to go out at night and skip church in the morning. They are thrilled at the prospect of taming two wild young men.

They are playing a maze game, running through the stalks of corn that will be cut soon. It's a seasonal game and the brothers know it well. They want to get a girl alone and speak with them. They don't want to marry yet, they want to test the waters and find what they like.

The children run off away from the prying eyes of guardians and rush through the fields. The eldest brother follows a girl with a yellow dress; she's just grown breasts and likes to unbutton her blouse for boys. He's never seen a breast before, only at the burlesque house has he seen women in corsets, touching other men.

He catches up to her and she plays coy. Rosalie waits in the stalks, watching the two of them. He persuades her with touches around the waist and when he starts to untie her bodice she doesn't stop him. One breast pops out and Rosalie scoffs a giggle. The nipple is slightly brown and her breasts are not perky or shaped correctly. They remind her of a ram's horn.

He touches them eagerly, fondling and pinching the taught nipple. She slips the other out and he suckles them like a baby. She wants to show him more and drops her dress completely. Rosalie gasps and her anger boils under her skin.

She wants to willingly give her virginity away while Rosalie had hers brutally snatched. The boy's hand darts to her vagina and pets the hair that curls. He mimics what he's seen at the burlesque house and tries to find something that would lead him. She gasps and moans, her fingers touching her breasts as he parts her lips and violently shoves a finger inside.

She yelps in pain and tries to pull away but he's excited and wants more. He pulls off his pants and wrestles her to the ground. She no longer wants him to touch her, she's changed her mind but he's become overzealous and wants to plunge into her. He doesn't like that Royce got to go first and was only allowed to go after him.

Rosalie moves from the stalks, her dramatic death scene gone as she grabs him by the throat and yanks him up. He is turned to her, pants around his ankles and a naked crying girl on the ground with hand shaped bruises on her waist and breasts.

"Go," Rosalie snaps at her. "And tell no one."

The girl gathers her dress and pulls it up, running from the two former lovers wrapped in a deathly embrace.

"You're dead," he gasps, scraping at her hands desperately.

"I am," she says quietly. "And so are you."

She squeezes and watches with satisfaction as he dies painfully and slowly in her hands. She likes to grip tightly and then let go, making him think he'll survive and then snatching that hope away. Within ten minutes of his pathetic gurgling he hangs limply in her fist.

She rushes to the other boy, who is being cornered by two girls. They are shamelessly throwing themselves at him. He is polite to them, gives them the time of day by listening to what they have to say, and they want to thank him.

Rosalie cannot take it anymore, she cries in horror and the girls, seeing her, flee from the supposedly dead woman. The other brother begins to cry, begging for mercy, saying that he knew she would come. She doesn't care about him; he followed his brother and his friends. She breaks his legs quickly, the satisfying scream echoing and the sound of blood hounds barking comes quickly. She steps on his arms and the crunch doesn't faze her. She lets him live, only because when Royce struck her for the first time he helped her up from the floor.

--

Rosalie sits on the marshlands ground drawing shapes with her index finger. The Grim Reaper sits in its chair, watching, its shapeless face resting on its shapeless hand. It enjoys watching her contemplate her plans. She has more creativity than it has seen in a long time and her fury makes things more exciting.

"Have you finished?" it asks her.

"No," she answers quickly. "I have Royce left; I want him to suffer the most. But I want him privately, whereas the others were publically left for death."

"You have twenty four hours. It's all I can give you. Purgatory can only remain for so long before you disappear and walk the earth as a shadow."

Rosalie shudders. "I don't like that idea. I want to kill Royce and then I'll go to hell." She looks up at the Reaper and implores it with her eyes. "Would walking the earth as a spirit be better than hell, though?"

"You will feel nothing as a spirit, you will be completely detached. You will eventually lose contact from your mind without the physical touches. You will essentially be mindless, a catatonic creature."

Rosalie decides right away that she wants to go to hell. Nothing scares her more than being unable to feel her body, something that her mother always prided herself on having. She was beautiful and gorgeous, blonde shining hair, soft skin that people were eager to touch. She had been taught that she was better because of her looks and Rosalie can't help the draw to her physical features.

Rosalie sinks into the dirty pond, the link between humanity and purgatory. She appears on the other side in an elegant gown, the gown that she had spent years dreaming of. There is a bouquet in her hand, white orchids and blood red roses. She tucks it to her chest and breathes in the last of her life.

She walks past the dogs unnoticed. They are sleeping and she is silent as the ghost that she is. She pretends that the walk up to the door and past the long winding halls is her march down to the alter. Tears prick at her eyes but refuse to fall. How many times had she dreamed of this?

She makes her way past alert guards and to the room that is sealed like an envelope. Three guards stand outside the room. Rosalie kills them quickly and painlessly, easy slits across the throat and less than a second of realization before they die.

She unlocks the door and is surprised to find that Royce is waiting on his large bed. His sword and a pistol in his hand. He shoots the pistol at her but it only punches a hole through her dress. The bullet drops to the floor unceremoniously. He scrambles to his feet, the sword in his hand and his feet braced for battle.

"You can't kill what's already dead," she chuckles darkly.

His breathing picks up and he drops the sword to his side. He is sweating like he'd run a foot race and his breathing is so loud that it becomes obnoxious. Rosalie steps forward and Royce barks at her.

"Don't come any closer!"

"Why?" she sneers. "I believe I said those exact words to you when you threw me to the ground."

"I was drunk, Rosalie, not in my right mind. You know I would never—"

"I am dead, not in my right mind. I'm drunk off revenge and injustice." Rosalie steps forward, and Royce moves to greet her. He is intimidating even when she is dead and cannot be harmed.

He digs in his pocket and produces a crucifix. She laughs and walks forward, he throws it at her, a resounding smack as it strikes her skin and drops to the floor. She steps on the crucifix and kicks away the pieces. She doesn't want Royce to play with her mind. Her physical pain is nothing, but what he says hurts her the most.

She grabs him by the throat and squeezes, pushing him to the bed and straddling him in a lover's embrace. She is a scorned woman desperately trying to regain her foundation. He gasps and whimpers trying to push her away and speak, but she lets him say nothing. She watches his dying face and cries over him. His life force is the anchor that keeps her to this earth and once he sighs his final breath the grandfather clock in the corner tolls midnight.

She leans back and moves away from the body. The Grim Reaper is there and holds its hand for her to grasp. They are at the Golden Gates in an instant and she smiles at the shrouded creature.

"Thank you," she whispers. "I can finally feel peace." She grabs her chest above her heart and closes her eyes reverently.

The Reaper nods and the gates open slowly. Rosalie walks to them and spreads her arms out at her sides, like an angel walking through the depths of hell.

The Reaper watches her disappear and then turns to the bubbling lagoon as another scene plays through the tides.

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**A/N: This will be a short series of one-shots revolving around different characters. Some will be linked, others will stand on their own.**

**I would also like to say that this has nothing to do with religion. Nothing at all. This is just me messing with the afterlife and different versions of the seven sins which I'm trying to incorporate. I've wanted to play around with third person, present tense for a long time and this seems like the perfect opportunity.  
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	2. The Lord Is My Shepard

**A/N: Why psalm 23? I have an attraction to the words. I'm not religious, I have no draw to it, but I think this verse is gorgeous. **

**Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. It means a lot.  
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**(****The Lord is my Shepherd****)**

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The Grim Reaper sits precariously on its pedestal just below the gates of Heaven of and Hell. The scene before it is foggy and unclear but it can see the shapes and figures that have developed in the swirling pools.

A blonde man runs from his townspeople who have turned against him. They are hunting for supernatural beings and because the preacher's son refuses to take over the church they have no other choice but to determine that he has been possessed by some devil. He gasps as his legs give out and he falls to the ground on a stack of potatoes.

The crowd catches up and as they all fight to drown him in holy water and stab the demons from him, he begins the spiraling fall into another realm. He gasps his forgiveness, screams for them to stop. Plump women say how they knew he was possessed by the devil, they shove their greasy fingers in his face to gouge his eyes out and he screams.

The townspeople see him unmoving and leave, muttering that the devil must leave his body and not enter theirs. The Reaper laughs, amused with the humans who know nothing about supernatural occurrences. It is the cause for those occurrences. The Reaper gives human's that ability to take revenge upon the people.

The young man holds his bleeding head, muttering a prayer and cursing after it. Cursing God and not the people who beat him to death. The Reaper cocks its head and watches the human die, appearing before it in a bloody torrent of scratched limbs and sticky blood.

"Welcome," the reaper murmurs, its voice echoes throughout the marsh.

"Purgatory," the man laughs bitterly and sinks to his knees, sighing and flicking away the accumulated blood.

"Indeed," the Reaper assures. "I would expect no less from the son of a preacher."

The man's head snaps up and his eyes flame, indignant. "That does not define me," he snaps. "If I am in purgatory then I have choices, do I not?"

"You do."

"I want them."

The Reaper shifts and it is eager to see what this man wants of death. "You can pass through the gates to Heaven or Hell." The man looks unimpressed. "Or you can seek retribution."

"I want retribution. I want them all to suffer." His voice is a hiss. He has been a compassionate man all his life, but the moment he refused to take over the preacher position the town turned against him.

"You have limited time, use it wisely," the Reaper warns.

The man nods and grins. "I will."

--

Carlisle Cullen was a devoted man of the Lord. He had spent his whole life studying under his father and preaching the good word. He had wanted to do Missionary work, to spread the word to those with less than he had.

As soon as he told his father this, the wrath of which the levelheaded preacher man had turned to his only son was unfounded. He had preached the word that the Devil had gotten into his son and convinced him to refuse work as a messenger of the Lord. The town followed his word without a second thought and Carlisle was in preparation to be lynched before he ran from them.

Now, the young man stands above his body as the townspeople stack wood around it, ready to burn the Devil's spawn. Carlisle looks at each face, remembering the kind words spoken to him at the alter. Mrs. Anderson baked him bread and her husband paid him to work at the front of the shop, making an honest living to put away for future use.

Carlisle mutters curses at each one of them. His fists shake in anger and he has to breathe deeply to keep the rage down. The smoke of his body rises up into the air and he immediately knows what needs to be done. He starts off his revenge with a plague. All the children standing around the fire, watching the flames lick at his skin and inhaling his flesh, begin to choke and cough. He smiles maliciously and watches.

He wanders aimlessly long after the crowds have gone. He looks in through windows and watches as parents hover over their children and wonder what could have spiked their fevers in such a short amount of time. Carlisle's father begins to make house calls, reading last rights in case they don't survive until the morning.

The town has grown silent and without the burden of humanity, he feels the confidence to enter the chamber of a woman. She has drawn a bath and covered the window of her cottage. Her husband is gone for the night, out of town as he is every other week. Carlisle thought of this young woman many a time before. His father had taught him abstinence, to never know the touch of a woman until he became a dedicated shepherd of the Lord.

She blows out the candles in the main room and the foyer then walks back to her room where she sheds the silk robe. Carlisle watches as each inch of skin is exposed to his eyes, she is bare before him, her skin glows in the light, a pale beacon in the darkness. She slips into the tub, her breasts floating as she falls in and sighs.

He wants her with a force he isn't sure exists. His pants have become tented and he is upset to find that he would not know what to do if he took her right here. She rubs a bar of soap across her skin, a sad expression on her face and light shadows under her eyes. He watches her slim body and eyes hungrily every part of her body.

Her hand pinches a nipple and they both gasp. She has been without a man's touch for weeks now. Her husband comes now and again to seek out his own pleasure and then leaves. She only finds release by her own hand now. She wants to try things, she is still young and her curiosity makes her burn for knowledge, but her husband does not allow her to touch him without his consent.

She feels as though someone sees her, hears her silent plea and is watching. She likes the feeling of being spied on and slips her hands into the water. If anyone knew of what she did at night she would be chastised publically and humiliated, but she likes to rub her washcloth between her legs and undulate with the water.

Her breasts ache and she feels as if a heavy weight is cupping them. Carlisle grabs them gently; unsure of how far he can go before she notices he is there. He doesn't like that he cannot materialize before her yet. Until someone dies he cannot seek out action.

He vows to have Esme before he goes to hell.

--

By morning every child at the burning the night before has died. They all sucked in their last breath at dawn and perished. Mothers cried on their porch and children who had slept through the murder try to understand that their siblings have died.

The Reaper stands behind Carlisle, a hand upon his shoulder, giving him what he needs. He has become manic with power and he wants to get his murdering out of the way to be with Esme. He wants his last moments of life to be with the woman he's held as a deity. His body shakes when he thinks of her and he likes to watch her go about daily things.

He stops at the bakery first, finding the Andersons in the back room fiddling with the gas oven. Mr. Anderson is inside the oven, poking around at the iron shelves while the Misses stands, watching him with her plump arms resting on her stomach. She is blabbering to him how she had told months ago to install a new over. He grumbles and yells at her through the cage. Carlisle moves the matches closer to the Misses and turns the gas on.

She huffs and grabs the matches from the stove. When Carlisle was little he would marvel at her nervous habit to light matches and smell the embers that had died on the wood. He liked to watch them almost burn her fingers before she shook them out.

Mrs. Anderson lights a match and as she shakes it the burner catches fire. Mr. Anderson is on fire instantly, knocking into his wife and she screams as her dress catches. They are both walking disasters flailing about the store, screaming and crying for help. A crowd gathers round but no one dares to go into the burning building.

The two die from burns, though he can't be sure because the roof collapsed soon after the fire began. Carlisle smiles as the crowd becomes skeptical. He's spread the seed of doubt amongst the people.

That night everyone floods to the church, asking forgiveness for their sins. Carlisle sits in the back, watching his father sweat and futilely promise citizens that they'll be safe. Carlisle sneers at his father and the pressure of his glare is obvious on the man. Many people choose to have their last rights read, afraid that they will wake like the children without their life.

Carlisle follows Esme home, she is nervous the whole way, constantly looking over her shoulder. She feels the same eyes as last night but there is no one to spot in the dark alley. She rushes home, her bosom heaving at the danger of someone following and watching her sends a thrill down her spine. She's always liked danger, ever since she was a child and climbed a cherry tree. She had fallen and broken her leg, and though her friends laughed at her, a young boy told her she was brave. She instantly misses her old friend and sighs as she moves to her bed.

She thinks of Carlisle often, she didn't go after him when the town called him a demon. She understands running away from fate. She ran from her husband when she was first set to marry him. She only wishes that she was as strong as Carlisle.

She moves to the center of her bed, feeling the shame and sin that bubbles up as she removes her dress and bodice. She has thought of him in place of her husband before, whispering his name as she arches her back beneath her husband. He never listens to her, though, too caught up in his own pleasure. She is nude quickly and moves a pillow between her legs as she presses her front into the bed. Her legs straddle it and she parts her lips with gentle fingers. Her hips rock on the pillow and she muffles her cries with the comforter. There is weight on the bed and she gasps.

Carlisle kneels behind her, watching her rump in the air and her glistening vagina rub against the down of a pillow. He has never seen anything like this, never in his entire life has he dreamed of the woman he loves in this position, but he likes it. He puts his hands on her back and presses his clothed hips against hers. She gasps and sits up, eyes wide and heavy with lust.

He is unseen; he has made a promise not to have her before he finishes his mission. She stays still for a moment more, looking at the blinds that have been drawn over the window. She bites her lip and decides to stay up, rocking her hips against the pillow again. She sighs loudly and he watches her breasts bounce with each pass she makes. He likes to see her body flushed and hot, and her finger occasionally skims down to touch herself. He watches to gather information for when he has her.

She begins to moan into the air, her hands tugging at her hair and Carlisle watches Esme intently, making her body break out in puckered flesh. She leans down again, her breasts mashed into the mattress and her clitoris rubbing against the seam of the pillow. She is gasping, crying out and a name spills from her lips, unintelligible to her ears, but not to the dead man beside her.

He traces a ghostly finger up her slit to the place where she is pulsing excretion. His finger moves in easily and she clamps down around the sudden penetration. When the orgasm wares off she sits up, panicked and gasping, but no one is there.

--

Carlisle Cullen is outside the congregational church, glaring at the oldest building in the town. Every person is inside, he has committed a series of murders the night before, knowing that everyone would come to beg for forgiveness, he was right of course.

The Grim Reaper is by his side, folded in on itself. "You are sure?" it asks.

"More than anything," Carlisle answers.

"You have twenty four hours to do as you like, by that time I will come for you and if you so choose to go to hell or walk the earth as a motionless ghost, so be it."

"That depends on what happens after I kill all these people," he murmurs. "If I kill her, will she go to you?"

The Reaper turns to him. "She will go to purgatory, but not mine. There is a separate place for those killed by the dead."

Carlisle sighs. "I want her."

"Then go." The Reaper leaves to give Carlisle his time.

He has decided what he wants. Those who have treated him the worst will suffer the same fate as he. His father, though, he wants his father to live in pain and suffer.

Carlisle flicks a match onto the dry brush and barricades the doors. He puts up the storm locks and makes sure the wind blows away so no one in the church will notice until it is too late. By the time the first scream is heard the west side of the building is in flames.

He listens to the screams and cries of agony as men and women yell for salvation. Carlisle puts his hands inside his pockets and watches with a solemn smile. His hair is blown by the wind and he listens to the sound of windows being smashed only to find that they have been boarded and are catching fire. The church is burned to the ground in an hour and Esme has appeared, breathless and crying.

Carlisle had made sure that she did not go to church this morning, smothering her until she was passed out and safe from waking before dawn. She falls to the ground, watching the smoldering ashes of longtime friends and family. She covers her eyes and cries out.

Carlisle touches her shoulder and she jumps. Her eyes meet his and she screams in agony as the dead man comes to her. He crouches beside her, looking almost the same save for the pale, hard skin and dead black eyes. She trembles away from him and falls to her back as she crawls away.

"I knew it was you," she whispers in horror.

There is a gurgling moan from the rubble and Carlisle knows it is his father. He smiles as he sees the deformed human crawl from the ashes and gasp in pain. He doesn't want to see the damage he has caused, he realizes that it is enough and he feels a sense of almost fulfillment run through him. It's the most alive he's felt since coming here.

He pulls Esme up by her shoulders and pats away the dirt from her dress like the proper gentleman. She trembles in his grasp, but he knows what he wants and won't be denied. He has her hand and begins to walk toward her home. She tugs every now and then, but it is apparent that she is willingly following him.

The door's clicking gives him sudden power and he lifts her under the knees, bringing her to the bed and throwing her down. She enjoys his roughness but fights against him and he drops to his knees on the bed. She gasps against his lips and moans in disapproval.

"No," she whispers.

"I feel that you want me," he murmurs. "I've seen you at night; know that you want a man who takes care of you." His hand has slipped under her dress and up to her thigh.

Her breathing is heavier as his hand comes flush against her dripping heat. She thinks of dirty words and utters them wantonly. His body trembles as he says the words that are so filthy and disgusting.

"I've seen… seen the way you touch your cunt." He trembles in excitement at the dirty word. He's read them in erotic novels that his aunt had owned. He never thought the words could make everything more vibrant and surreal.

She gasps and thrusts her hips up, her legs falling open, back arching to him. He removes her clothing carefully and she assists him. Esme has dreamed of him, desired him so. She feels her body heat and shake for him and what he holds. She finds herself terrified of him for killing everyone, but she feels like a willing victim as he gives her everything she could possibly want.

"I wish you were my husband," Esme gasps. His hand is timidly undoing her dress and her midair legs twitch with every touch.

"I wish I was your husband," he whispers back. "I wish I could stay with you."

"Please?" she begs, but he shakes his head, knowing it is not possible. Instead he slips in a gentle finger, trying to reenact what he'd done the other night.

"This is my last night on earth," he tells her, an ache in his chest.

She sits up, whimpering at the feel of his hand. "Then let me please you."

He shakes his head again but she pushes him back, removing his clothing quickly and desperately. His body is everything she imagined and more. She's wanted more than brawn and money. She wants the modesty that Carlisle had always held. She wants him to touch her in the heat of the night, to feel his skin against hers instead of a brutal husband who becomes angered easily.

His pants are gone and he is naked, his pure mind is shy and he aches to turn away but she is naked, too. Her innocence is in her eyes, looking at him with pure desire. She lies against him, their torsos and hips touching and rubbing her entire body against his. He bites his lip and arches his neck. She smiles against his chest.

Esme's mouth is on him, he is in her and she moans as if he is doing something great to please her. He thrashes around, his abdomen clenching and his testicles in great pain and then release comes quickly. She drinks some and what she cannot get runs down her chest. She smiles patiently, running her fingers over the semen on her chest. He likes the sight; it's a marking that will always burn her skin.

Esme lies on her stomach and bends her knees. She has become bold and wants to be pleased for once. Carlisle knows not what to do, he sees everything exposed to him, an offering as she turns her face and bobs her hips into the air. Is he to reciprocate the action of oral pleasure? He leans forward, unsure where to start, but his nose touches the perineum and she gasps, bucking her hips up and his nose brushes against her clitoris.

He licks it gently and she screams in shock of his cold tongue. Esme's body is wired, she has yet to have an orgasm from a man and she knows she's ready. Carlisle is built for her, and he wants to make her feel what she's never thought possible. Her husband is strict, ruling and selfish, Carlisle knows that this freedom is knew for her, and he eagerly dives his tongue where his finger have gone into.

Esme gasps and one of her hands grab Carlisle's, pulling it up and guiding a finger to her clitoris. He rubs, enthusiastic to do what she wants. She moves her hips with him and cries his name over and over. The more he stimulates her the louder she says his name. He hopes that if the heavens hear he will one day be rewarded with her.

She stills completely, and before he can think that he's done something wrong, she erupts into cries and moans of his name, over and over, never stopping until her body slumps and he rolls her onto her back. She pulls him down to her, desperate to have him inside of her. She kisses him frantically, dizzy with want and touches him, guiding him inside.

Carlisle moves in and she can feel him everywhere. The warmth an incredible contrast to the cold, for them both. Carlisle moves and Esme finishes quickly, seconds before him. They collapse together, but the toll of afternoon rings through the room and Carlisle feels the tug in his chest.

"I must go," he whispers. "I have fulfilled my mission on earth."

"No!" she yells, pulling back to the bed. "No, you can't leave me. No, please don't, Carlisle!"

"I have to go… to hell," he whispers sullenly.

Her eyes widen and her breathing stops. "H-hell?"

"That is my punishment for coming to earth, to seek my retribution."

"How do I go with you?" she asks desperately.

"One has to be murdered… go to purgatory and seek retribution of their own." He is selfish and wants her to be with him. He wants his eternity of pain and suffering to be shared with the woman he loves, even if he will later grow to regret it. "I must go."

He leaves her before she can convince him otherwise. He wouldn't be able to follow her and consciously keep an eye on her; he would become a detached body roaming uselessly.

The Grim Reaper waits as Carlisle crawls through the bubbling muck, clothes rumpled and satisfaction solemnly stretched across his face.

The Reaper watches him walk through and accept his fate with an open mind. He looks to the pool connecting humans and non-humans and smiles at the destroyed woman in bed, clutching a male's shirt to her chest. The Reaper watches the woman, knowing he will face her soon.

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**A/N: I wonder what will happen to Esme. Will she follow Carlisle or change her mind?  
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	3. Leap of Faith

**A/N: A continuation off of last chapter. Kind of an epilogue to the pair.  
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**(Leap of Faith)**

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The Grim Reaper sits precariously on its pedestal just below the gates of Heaven of and Hell. Things have never happened like this before. The Reaper watches a distraught woman, wrapped tightly in her covers sobbing over a deceased lover she had in bed only moments before.

The Reaper cannot go to her, but she knows what she must do. Her lover has told her of what it takes in order to travel to purgatory. It is a complicated line once a person knows. She will have to be murdered, but if she seeks such a fate the consequences will be suicide. The woman realizes this, and after her tears have dried and coitus is cleaned from her, she sits on her bed and thinks long and hard.

She is floundering between staying and leaving, it scares her, the thought of death. Only months before she lost her child. The Reaper has rarely dealt with infants, only in severe cases where murderers and child molesters kill their victims had the Reaper witnessed the purity of children. Infants pass through and go beyond—not quite heaven, but a sanctuary for those who remain tiny for eternity.

The woman sobs and clenches her chest. She is torn apart by her lover's disappearance, and the unhappy husband who will come back for her. She also realizes that she is in the middle of a massacre, the telltale signs that her imagination is not the cause of her sadness and pleasure. The woman lies in her bed, unsure of what to do, but her heart is barren and she can spread no remorse to those who died in the church. She thinks they are lucky to have died there, eternal salvation and cleansing for all their filthy sins.

She stands up and decides if she sits around longer she will be punished for the crime. There is not a soul alive in the wreckage of the church. It is a silent grave.

She sits at a coach of frightened horses stuck to a wooden beam on a cobblestone walk and mushes them forward. The horses are eager to leave the scene of death and decay. She pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders and watches the tails of the galloping beasts before her.

The Reaper is amused to find that she goes to her parents' home on the outskirts of another town. She hops down and slams her fist on the door.

"Please!" she screams. "Mother! Father!"

The door opens and she flings herself at the housemaid. She must look crazy to the small girl, her hair is mussed like she was beaten by bandits in the wilderness or thrown down in the manner that she was. The girl runs to get the mistress and master of the homestead.

They are surprised to see their only daughter in tears and on her knees, soot covering her dress and tears around the fabric. They rush forward and are greeted with the babbles of a woman who has witnessed mass murder and two orgasms in one day.

"They're all dead!" she cries.

"Who?" demands her father.

"The town! Oh, it was so awful!"

She explains the awful details of the Sunday Mass Massacre. The local authorities have taken her account and a news reporter jots down notes as she relives the horror, throwing in details so as not to leave herself or her ghost lover at fault.

--

Esme Platt sits on her parents' stiff country couch. It's not meant for sitting, but the covered chairs make her tailbone ache. She has regaled them with the horror of the church fire, how she had not woken up in time to make into the sermon. Her father clicks his tongue but says nothing. He is a faithful servant of the lord and cannot decide whether to chastise her for missing church or let it slip.

Soon after she is tired from explaining the massacre and careful to avoid her ghost lover, she retires to bed. She waits for a few hours but realizes that he will never come back. He has gone to hell and is probably suffering in the eternal flames. She doesn't like the idea of torture, but she wants to be with him more than anything.

It is a rough couple of days after that fateful Sunday. After her mourning of the man she loves the impact that everyone she knew and loved has died kills her. She drinks scotch for awhile afterwards. Her mother finds her passed out in the bathroom on a Wednesday afternoon and takes her to the clinic where they yell at her and remind her that she has a reputation to uphold.

Esme's mother was a drunk. She hates to see her own daughter suffer the same fate as her after death. Sometimes when her husband is asleep she goes to the parlor and drinks wine like a fish. Her guilt crushes her and she recognizes how unhappy she is.

On a Saturday, while Esme is watching the birds flutter from the trees, she hears the distinct sound of bells and galloping hooves. A pained cry leaves her throat and she cannot bear to see her husband. She refuses to come out of her room when the maid comes, telling her in a frightened voice that Charles has demanded to see her.

Two hours after her refusal, he comes up. His footsteps are reminiscent of a clock tolling the dawn, and she fears that his anger will not be thwarted by her traumatic experience. Esme recedes beneath the covers like a small child and trembles when the deep timbre of his voice barks through the door. He is angry, unpleased with his wife not listening to his orders. His pride is wounded as there is a crowd downstairs all pining for her to leave the room and speak.

He wiggles the handle and when it refuses to open his fist creates a crown of wood and splinters over his knuckles. Esme sees the uneasy sight of his tan forearm deep in her childhood door and screams in anger. She finds, though, as he begins his quiet tirade so as not to draw attention upon them, that Charles is her way to the other side.

She will use one man in order to obtain another.

--

"Stop slouching," Charles snaps for the hundredth time.

Esme doesn't listen and remains in her slumped position amongst the throngs of throw pillows. They are hand made by her mother, before her father told her to stop wasting time with pillows. She hugs one to her chest and thinks of Carlisle.

She associates Charles with bad thoughts, and when he barks an order her impulse is to obey out of fear. She wants to create a system in the Pavlov's Dog way. Whenever Charles yells she thinks of Carlisle's blue eyes and his splendid penis.

She has not left her old room in two weeks, decidedly using the bathroom across the hall when she needs relief or hours after the maids coax her out with a hot bath. She has taken one, around midnight when the water is frigid and she is eager to be back in her warm bed.

She smells like rotten pine and wasted flesh. Her nose has become at ease with it, Charles has not. He threw perfume at her—the expensive kind from his trip—and ordered her to spray. The bottle now lay in pieces on the floor of the room, the scented water dripping in screams down the wall. Now that it's dried, she sees a face peering back at her, crying.

"I have an engagement tonight," Charles snaps to get her attention. "You'll be coming with me. I'm sick of the people thinking you're some poor little girl. They're dead and gone, they won't be coming back."

"I'm not going," Esme says defiantly.

Charles' face becomes a heated ball of flushed skin and purple apples as he glares down on her. She feels the pressure in her chest and thinks of Carlisle, his face taught with a cry and his pink tongue. Her face flushes back in refute.

"The hell you aren't!" Charles doesn't like his wife's new impudence.

He longs to hit her, feel the crack of flesh against flesh or his wooden paddle. He wants to lunge at her and wrap his hands around her neck until the life is breathed out. Unfortunately they are currently residing in her parents' home and if he so much as leaves a mark on her he'll be cut off from the family name and money in a heart beat.

He lowers his voice, unsure how much longer he can resist asphyxiating his wife. "Esme, I think we should go tonight. It'll do you some good, being out of the house."

"I'm not going," she repeats.

He grabs the pillow and throws it into a lamp. The shattering makes it easier to suppress his rage and she still trembles away from him. He grabs her hair by the roots and yanks her forward. His clean breath fans over her oily skin and she begins to cry. He trembles with excitement, his trousers becoming tighter at the fear in her eyes. He wants to throw her down, give her a sound spanking and throw himself into her flesh.

Esme is scared when he suddenly stops. Surely he wouldn't hit her with her parents right downstairs! As she glances hopefully towards the ground, she sees the cause of his sudden halt.

He is practically leering at her, and she knows why. Charles has, on several occasions, take liberties without consent. He likes to leave her helpless, scared and defenseless and do the opposite of what a husband should do. He never makes love to her, not after the miscarriage, he fucks her savagely and never waits for her to receive pleasure before his own. When he's finished using her she curls up on her side and cries. Now, she thinks he might just have the audacity to do just that while the rest of the house listens to her painful shrieks.

Charles releases her and she falls to the bed, her stringy caramel hair falling around her face.

"Take a bath," Charles hisses low. "And when I come back you had better be ready."

He leaves with nothing else needing to be said, and as soon as the front door opens Esme runs to the bathroom. The tub is already filled with steaming water and she hates him a little more.

--

As husband and wife sit uneasily beside one another, the carriage continues to move along the cold cobblestone path. The road is rocky and unsuitable for anything other than a well crafted buggy and strong horse.

Esme seethes in her seat; she's decided that having anything other than anger is useless. She wants to kill Charles but needs him to kill her. She wants Carlisle again, and she has spiraled into a deep depression knowing he is in the depths of hell while she sips her champagne and is offered condolences for her atrocious horror.

Esme glares holes into Charles' head the entire time. And when he begins to flirt she splashes her drink in his face, the girl in question leaves and gasps in amazement of her faux pas.

Charles is visibly shaken and knows not what to do, so he slaps her.

The whole room is shocked into silence and everyone stares as the blood rushes to the surface of Esme's skin. She places a hand on her cheek to feel the warmth as opposed to the cool liquor on his cheeks.

He casually grabs her hand and pulls her through the front door. The small social gathering erupts into a gaggle of guffaws and cries. Esme is suddenly terrified and has changed her mind about this. She doesn't want to die, on the contrary, she wants to live and go onto have another child to fill the void. That's what her mother did and she was fine.

"No," she yells when he pulls her to the carriage. She begins to kick her legs but he shoves her to the floor and takes the reigns.

The carriage is going too fast for her to jump from, but she doesn't have wait long. They are running through a barren field outside of the Lou Shan River. Her heart fills with fear as he stops, reaches back and pushes her to the wet marshland.

"I can't believe you would have the _audacity_," he sneers. "To do something that stupid in the middle of a Goddamn party!"

"If you hurt me they'll know," she whispers threateningly.

"No." He shakes his head slowly and smiles widely. "They'll know if I bruise you, but they won't know if I kill you."

She gasps as he straddles her midsection and his fists are around her throat. She can't breathe anymore. He glares down at her gasping face, like a fish, he muses.

"I've got a girl out west," he says calmly to her, smiling as the plan forms in his head. "She's been keeping care of me; she's with child once again—my child. You see, unlike you, she can carry one."

Esme's crushing grief consumes her once again and lifts her leg violently between his. He gasps and she follows suit as his hands retract.

She lets out a heart wrenching sob and covers her throat with two hands. Scrambling to her feet, Esme begins to run. She couldn't hope to injure him more than she had, but she needs to escape, to retrieve help.

"Esme!" he screams. His footsteps are heavy behind her, but he is too close.

She continues to run, pulling her dress up and burying herself deeper into the dense woods. The limbs of trees reach out for her; pull her back, and soon so does Charles.

She is on the ground quickly and he has pinned her hands to the mud. She struggles and his knees are painfully against her thighs. He is breathing heavily, his face twisted in agony, but manages to keep her fighting arms and legs to the ground. His anger is overcoming him and he pushes harder.

"I'll be glad to rid you of his world." He leans his head back and laughs.

"I hate you!" she snaps, her throat raspy. "I brought another to our bed. He pleased me far more than you ever could."

Those words are her last as Charles strangles the life from her body. His pride is wounded sharply, that was something he never failed at, never doubted himself or had reason to doubt. As the final string of air leaves her throat he leans back heavily on his knees and begins the work of disposing the body.

He pushes her body into the old muddy lake with a rock attached to her leg and watches every last bubble of air rise up to the surface and break. He is heavy with the grief of murder but is pleased nonetheless.

Turning on his heel, he goes to deliver the news of Esme Platt's disappearance.

--

The Grim Reaper sits precariously on its pedestal just below the gates of Heaven of and Hell. It sees the murder happen and laughs out in a gravel strained voice. Never has it seen such a festival of strange curiosities, but the woman in his murky pool, dropping beneath the waters surface is dead, and as fate would have it, she hadn't wanted to be.

She is in front of him a moment later. Her dress is in ruins, bruises fading already as her new afterlife body shifts and morphs. The Reaper watches with amusement as she registers what has happened, her throat releases a great cry.

"Have you decided you want your shadow lover no more?" The Reaper asks, its voice heavy with impatience.

"I can't believe—" she gasps. "I didn't think he would do that!"

"You pushed your husband far beyond his limits. It was suicide."

"So I won't be…."

"No, as your last moments of life had shown, you did not want to be murdered. Your husband committed the crime." The Reaper pauses for her to stand in the dripping muck she has made. "You have options here in Purgatory."

She nods. "I want to be with Carlisle."

"Very well." The Reaper points a shapeless hand toward the gray pool that is now swirling over her burial ground.

It watches as she sinks into the pool and breaks through the water, immediately heading to where her husband has fled to. She is eager and in a rush to find him, using all her ghastly abilities to catch up to the speeding wagon and the man drunk with power.

The cables connecting the horses snap and as they run away the carriage tips over. She secures her husband in the cage of her arms, not ready to have him killed yet.

Upon seeing his deceased wife the madman goes pale and thrashes about, hitting her and shooting her with the gun by his side. She says nothing while his disbelieving eyes peer into her soulless ones.

She laughs and twists his neck, a quick simple death before his heart gives out. She stands and the Reaper leads her to Purgatory. It is the quickest retribution he has seen in centuries. But she is content, a smile of ease gracing her pale lips.

"I'd like to see him now," she says quietly.

The Reaper steps aside by the Golden Gates that creak open ominously for her. She brings a tentative foot forward and then rushes into it, tears of happiness streaming down her face.

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**A/N: I'm very excited about the next installment. I've gotten really into writing these in between my WIPs.**

**Don't forget to review!**


	4. March on my Children

**A/N: This is my favorite so far. I really enjoyed writing this, and even doing research was fun.  
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**(March on my Children)

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The Grim Reaper sits precariously on its pedestal just below the gates of Heaven of and Hell. It sees the contents of dirt smattered across its hand. The grains are unceremoniously lying upon the morphed flesh and shapeless fingers. Its curiosity is piqued and then in a bout of anger the heap is smashed into the decaying earth again. The flailing limbs are reminiscent of a child throwing a temper tantrum.

The gray pool bubbles, creating mud in this never ending pit of infestation. The Reaper throws itself across the grounds and stares into the scene. Nothing of consequence.

It's a war, bloody and raging. It's in the peak of battle and if either side loses too much cavalry they will lose. The Reaper watches in rapt fascination as humans blow each other to smithereens and are congratulated by their fellow comrades.

There is a stony silence as the infantry march forward and cannons are loaded. The firing side yells and cheers while the opposite line quivers in fear. Several die on contact with the cannon, but that is not The Reaper's problem. Because of the overhaul of lost souls, purgatory had to be split into separate sections.

The Reaper's eyes lock on a boy—nowhere near a man—standing at the front. He is solemn, ready to face his death and the Reaper watches him very closely, sure that he will be the one sent to it.

Across the field another soldier takes direct aim, fury lighting his eyes. For whatever reason this man wants to kill the other. The scope of his gun is set and ready as the commander calls them to fire. The bullet pierces the Kid's lung and for several seconds he's left gasping and panting as the air leaks out and never comes back in.

The war continues on around them and soon enough the man who shot him is murdered by stray friendly fire. The Reaper watches the last few moments of the writhing child in the wheat fields and notices that he has reached to grasp one, chewing on the end for a last reprise.

The blood hallows around him like deformed wings, but he will not be going to Heaven, not yet. The Reaper steps back as the scene closes back over into the muck of the swamp. It seats itself comfortably on its thrown. Sometimes it feels like a king, like everything is turning in its favor and maybe that the Reaper is God and not just a henchman.

The Kid appears on the ground in front of the Reaper, still writhing in his pain. He screams and bellows out, calls for people that he no longer has a right to see. Soon enough his new body takes over and begins to repair the damage. His eyes turn flat black and his skin becomes cold and hard with death. The Reaper waits for lucidity to return before standing above him.

"Welcome," it calls, startling the boy.

He shakes his head and his shoulders tremble. "Where am I?"

"You are in Purgatory," it answers. "It appears as though someone was out to get you in that infantry line."

He sighs. "Yeah."

The Reaper straightens and feels the authoritarian power surging over it. _This_ is what makes it feel like a God. "Behind me are the Golden Gates. You can walk through, unscathed, and go towards heaven. There is no guarantee that you will be directly measured into Heaven, but War Mongrels are taken into account."

"There's no guarantee?" he whispers.

"None whatsoever. You have a second option, though, one that would require you to be sent directly to Hell, but it is something to think over nonetheless."

"What is it?" he asks curiously and the Reaper watches his mind fly.

"You can go back to earth—as a spirit—and seek retribution."

"Retribution? Why would I need retribution?" he asks, but his eyes light up so quickly that the Reaper hasn't a chance to answer. "I could go back to General Lee's. If I assist them they could win the war!"

The Reaper nods slowly. "Indeed you can go back. Whatever you need to do in a specific amount of time will be upon your shoulders. But you must realize, any death you bring will be active in sending you to Hell."

The Kid's eyebrows raise. His twang is strong as pride swells through his corpse. "What if I just assist? If I help them win without killing would that be against the rules?"

"There are no rules of war," the Reaper jokes.

He nods vigorously; enticed by the challenge of having the Confederates win without handling death. "Can you send me to Virginia?"

--

Major Jasper Whitlock stands behind the cavalry, eagerly moving forward with the tired boys. The young man who he stepped in for at the infantry line is alive, but shaken. Jasper assisted him—not thinking it was possible to die—after hearing that his wife of three months was pregnant. The boy was heartbroken to think that he would die without seeing his infant child or young wife.

Jasper never had anyone like that. His mother died when he was young and his father was a brutal alcoholic. The army seemed like a good escape, and it was.

Jasper's eyes are on the general, he looks at him like a starving man looks at bread and wine. He moved ahead while the troops were marching to see that a small town was up ahead. When the General was ready to turn down a deserted pathway into marshlands Jasper spooked the horses into moving straight. It was quite the sight and he still chuckles over it.

After a few hours they happily pull into a town. They are welcomed with open arms, women make haste to bring food and draw baths. Grateful soldiers move to the houses with doors wide open. Children tug horses into stables and pet the soft manes.

Jasper watches them all with sadness in his eyes. He wants to be a part of this great relief. He wants to talk with the General, to hear stories of battle before the Civil War. His gray uniform is cleansed from the blood but still torn where the bullet entered. It serves as a memory to combine with the collection of his other scars.

He hears muttering and turns toward the road. A short woman is picking up a basket of upturned handkerchiefs. Her dress is dirty where she kneels and her arms are red and raw.

"Damn summer insects," she grumbles.

Jasper lurches forward, his chivalrous side comes in at full force as he kneels down and assists her with the slips of silk. His finger barely makes contact but try as he might, it won't lift. The woman slaps at his hand but hits the ground.

She gasps immediately and falls back onto her rear. Her eyes penetrate Jasper's and her muttering stops completely. He is stock still. No one from the cavalry saw him, almost everyone watched him die on the front lines. He was positive—absolutely certain—that no should be able to see him.

"You… are dead," she accuses.

Jasper struggles for coherency. Before he can answer voices surround him and someone is tugging on the young girl's arm.

"Damn it, Alice," a taller gentleman hisses. "Can't you _try_ to stay out of trouble? The town'll start their chittering again if you do things like this."

"Uh…" she hesitates and her eyes are still locked on Jasper. The man shakes her and her eyes snap upward again. "The basket fell."

"Then pick it up and get back inside!" The man drops her on her feet and moves inside a small cabin where several soldiers rest on the porch, smoking tobacco and drinking whisky.

His eyes are locked on the small woman staring at him with shock. She picks up her basket, turns on her heel and begins muttering once more. He follows the young woman, unsure of what else to be doing. He wants to see his beloved general, but he feels the necessity to haunt her until he is positive she is some sort of witch.

She walks upstairs, drops her basket and turns to glare at the ghostly figure in her room. Young Alice feels the chill of dread creep upward as she sees the man.

"Mama Juju said you'd be a comin' to get me," she says, hands firmly planted on her hips. "Some of the townsfolk think she's a crazy bog lady, but I always knew she wasn't out of her mind."

Jasper nods, hands buried deep within his gray pockets. He scrutinizes the girl and catches the upside down cross on her neck. His mouth twists in a grimace. Witch as she may be, he feels his soul is in jeopardy with this woman.

He clears his throat from habit. "I'll be gone soon enough ma'am," he says. "I have some business to conduct and then you'll never see my ugly mug again."

"Oh no you don't!" She jumps in front of the doorway, fury blazing in her eyes. "If you leave I'll never move on beyond a disciple."

"Well, that's nothing of my concern, ma'am." Jasper tried to hold his ground. He feels his neck prick with pain and needs to get away from her. She makes him uneasy and just glancing around at her herbs and other cage like paraphernalia looks enough to hold him here.

"Gimme your name, Soldier," she orders.

"Jasper Whitlock," he finds himself explaining. She holds power in those bewitching eyes. "I must be going."

She chuckles darkly, lifting her shift above her head. Jasper turns his eyes in modesty and holds out a hand in a halting symbol. He hears the sound of metal and then something is touching his wrist.

"I, Mary Alice Brandon the Third, declare you to be the sacrificial lamb to my prophecy."

Jasper looks back to find that the nymph like girl has removed her shift only to reveal a rather large chest plate with markings and symbols. Jasper recognizes one instantly. Years back in Mississippi when he'd started out his platoon, he had come across a gruesome scene with a headless body marked in symbols. A witch doctor had put the body there to ward off disease.

He wonders what she is doing in Virginia. There are swamp and marshlands here and there, but it is a God fearing place that she should not be able to survive in. Jasper's eyes are drawn to the chilled metal around his wrist. His body is still pale, nearly transparent and eerie, but the metal hangs out of place.

"Come," Alice orders sharply and turns from the room.

Jasper has no choice but to follow the small woman. He struggles the whole way and screams at her. No one else seems to notice the exchange, and even with her flashy chest plate she is treated as something to be kept away from, not confronted.

She walks them through town and into a barren field that takes two hours to cross. Jasper's pants are stained at the knee when they reach the swamp parts. Alice hoists her dress up to her buttocks and wades through.

In the distance a wooden boat floats with eyes painted down the side. Jasper hesitates to get inside, but Alice worms her way in and snaps her fingers at him. He has no choice but to step inside. He finds that he does not sink through the wood and that he is drawn to a circle in the center of the boat.

"You want me not to go into the Celestial Gates?" he asks her.

She hisses at a bird that lands on her knee. "You can go, if ya follow everything I say and appease me."

"What could you possibly need me for?"

"Patience, Soldier."

Jasper closes his mouth in a thin line, summoning the Reaper in his mind. It's probably afraid of the little monster. No telling what power she'd hold if she wrapped her hands around Death.

An hour of rowing and they enter a narrow path. Alice exits the boat, ties it to a tree and walks ahead. Jasper has no choice but to follow after her. He attempts to pull the metal off his wrist, but the fingers of his right hand fade through it. His left wrist is trapped inside.

Alice holds her skirt up and stampedes through a grouping of vultures ripping apart a dead animal. She fears not of the terrifying birds and kicks them from her way. They back away from her and squawk, going back to their meal. Jasper swallows hard and once again tries to flee.

A small shack with yellow lit windows glares in the evening light. The curtains are crimson and before Alice can knock on the board of wood acting as a door, a dark skinned woman shoves it aside. Jasper feels a chill run up his spine at the sight of her. She has hundreds of necklaces, bracelets and rings on. Her eyes are pointed in two different directions and the teeth she has remaining are black and decayed. There are streaks of white under her eyes and one on her chin. Alice regards her excitedly, pointing to Jasper's metal accessory.

The woman gasps and claps her hands, the bracelets clack together and the rings smack against each other. She grins her broken smile up in his direction. Alice moves around her, Jasper skirts around the woman.

"Well, chil'," the woman coos. "I'm glad ya find ya spirit."

"No one else can see him. Can you?" Alice asks, sitting in a chair made of what Jasper thinks are bones.

The woman shakes her head. "Nah, chil'. No one sees tha spirit. We need to draw 'im out."

"How?" Alice asks, eyes darting to Jasper.

A chill breaks his spine, severing the bone until the shards leave his skin ice cold. "No!" he bellows.

"Hold on, Mama Juju," Alice says. "He's protesting."

"I cannot kill!" Jasper screams at her. "The moment I kill a human I'll be brought into physical form and determined for hell."

"If he kills he'll go to hell," Alice relays to the Mother. "Is there any other way?"

"Tha Reapa'," she ponders. "Tha Reapa' told him this?"

"Yes."

"He says yes, Mama."

"Reapa' can't touch tha Bog." The Mother's wide grin returns. "Spirit friend can kill to be born into tha physical."

Jasper bristles and throws his arms out. "I do not want to murder!"

"Then why'd you come back, Mr. Whitlock?" Alice asks, annoyed. "I think if you were so concerned with Heaven you would'a just gone. Not come back to earth."

"It's like I told you," Jasper responds. "I have unfinished business."

"You War Dogs are all the same," she sneers. "You came back for revenge. You came to murder more innocents for your side's gain."

"And that's my own business to attend to. You are ebbing the natural flow, woman! I only have a certain space of time before I'm lost to the world!"

"Mama," Alice calls. "Can we hurry? There's a time limit on his existence."

"Even in death," the woman mutters.

She emerges from the back, a large tome in her dark hands. It's made of some animal, and even from where he stands he can smell it. She opens a page with a rather large diagram affixed to the page. Jasper tries to peek at the page but Mother closes it quickly, pulling a red cloth from a cylindrical shape.

"It's a good thing ya brought me this offerin', chil'," Mother says and drops the tarp.

Jasper steps away, a gasp stuck in his throat and vomit tugging at his esophagus. Alice looks at the floor, refusing to meet his gaze or the woman inside a rusty metal cage.

She's no older than twenty, tan limbs and blonde hair. She looks regal, someone fitting to belong in a royal family. Jasper knows if he saw her he'd be struck by her beauty, but now she's dirty, covered in markings of black dirt and white chalk. Her pink nipples have crosses covering the length of her breasts and her pubic hair is decorated with beads and gem stones.

There is a bone in her mouth, strapped around the back of her head and gagging her. Jasper still understands what the girl's screaming at the women. She wants help, to be released. Her body is contorted into an awkward position, her labia open with her legs and Jasper feels disgusted.

"Dear God," he whispers.

"Tell ya spirit to go on. Kill this sacrifice so ya may take on ya physical form," Mother says.

"It's virgin blood," Alice explains silently. "Tainted virgin blood more specifically. She committed murder, her blood and body are pure, her soul is not. You can take physical purity, though, since you are here, good and evil spirits will be exchanged."

"No Hell, spirit," Mother explains. "The markin's, they protect ya from the fires."

"I—I," Jasper swallows. "No, I—I won't!"

"He refuses," Alice relays.

"Force 'im."

"Jasper, kill her."

He takes four steps forward, rears his arm for the briefest second and strikes the young the woman in her throat, cutting off her air way and killing her only moments later.

--

Jasper has threatened Alice with death numerous times, tells her that his revenge will be against her and that she will die a most heinous death. She shrugs it off every time, telling him he'll never get the opportunity.

He regained his physical body, which was a curse. He could not float freely, sit by his General and listen to tales, he could not spend time with his fellow soldiers for they had seen him die. He was forced to stay by the Devil's side while she read her books and drew strange monograms along the lengths of her walls. On several occasions her mother or father would come in, deposit food and leave. Not once had they asked who Jasper was. He's grateful for this, for her does not want news to spread of him.

"Do you intend to assist them in winning the war?" Alice asks, scrawling notes in a packed book. Papers slip from the pages sometimes and Jasper covertly crinkles them up when she is not looking.

He refuses to answer, but her imploring eyes force him to do so. "Yes."

"Stupid boy," she mutters. "Of all the things to exact revenge on, you choose that? What could _you_ possibly do to help them? You are dead and of no use."

"Well I could have," he snaps. "But now that my physical body has returned I'll be of little to no use. I had no intention to kill with my own hands."

"And how would you go about doing that? Your ghostly abilities would have no effect on the outcome on the war."

Jasper scoffs. "I'd relay information. I could see the opposing forces coming and lead my men away. They would be safe with my efforts."

Alice giggles and then laughs loudly. Her hysteria continues for minutes while Jasper watches her with fury. Her face is red and purple, eyes watering and spilling over. Once fallen to her back, she rolls from side to side, tangling her legs within the folds of her dress.

He grasps one of the many glasses of liquid on her shelves and throws it into the wall. The shattering noise stops her bout of laughter as she looks to see which one he's destroyed. The smell rises up quickly and she chokes on the stench.

"Skunk essence," she gasps.

He smirks. The smell fazes him, but does bring about tears and difficulty in breathing. She wraps a scarf around her mouth and nose as she hurriedly cleans up the mess. Her eyes turn to glare at Jasper, who has lazily returned to lounging on a large stack of clothing. Her room is messier than the Bog, it's absolutely atrocious, but he prefers to be here than there.

Alice throws open the windows and hangs outside of one, greedily taking in air. Jasper contemplates once more a way to assist the cavalry. He feels a magnetic pulse to his comrades, but he also cannot leave Alice's side without her explicit permission—which she has yet to give in any regards.

Many saw him die, and if he were to reveal something to them, would he be dismissed to Hell immediately? The Reaper has yet to come for him. Jasper had been summoning it for days, calling upon its help during the brief hours that Alice slept. She would nod off at odd hours, snore for awhile and then wake up, searching the room for him.

"Get a bucket of water you bastard!" Alice screams, while still nearly out the window.

Jasper grudgingly rises and exits the house, glancing about the area before getting a bucket from a horse trough. The well is too far away and as it is men have come out for their nightly tobacco and whisky breaks. He longs to join them.

"Hurry!" Alice screams from above.

Jasper sighs heavily and totes the bucket inside, her parents passing nary a glance as he moves back upstairs. He thinks that perhaps she put a spell over them or that they had become so accustomed to her witching that it's had no effect on them.

Jasper is forced to clean up the skunk perfume with a dirty cloth and the water, his nose aching from the smell but otherwise conveying no pain from the odor. Alice continues with her book, flipping pages violently.

"Always with the damn book," Jasper snaps once finished.

She snorts. "Yes, well, as soon as I find out what should be done with you, you can leave me alone forever."

A breath of relief escapes from his lungs. "What have you so far?"

"I've translated a fair amount of Latin and Mama has assisted me as well. Her spirit was revealed to her when she was a child and therefore she remembers very little about the process her grandmother taught her. But we must become one, to understand the give and take of life and death."

"I must kill you?" Jasper asks, stumped.

"No, no, no." Alice shakes her head sharply. "How will I take on after Mama if you kill me? No, we must complete a ritual. Though I had thought the ritual was revealing you to your physical form. It took me years to find a tainted virgin and it's only a piece of the prophecy!"

Jasper's body stills. He refuses to remember the scared woman he's killed. His dead heart thrums painfully and he rubs the spot over it.

"I'd like to leave soon," he says coldly.

"Well I need to find out how to rid you of my side. The bracelet is necessary to keep you with me for the moment, but once your duty is done you can assist your fellow Soldiers."

"Alice?"

"Yes."

"Make no mistake. I will kill you."

--

Jasper and Alice were once again at Mother's home, sitting side by side on a couch reeking of disgust. Jasper prefers the skunk perfume over the smell of decayed flesh. Alice has given up on researching a union on her own. She refuses to sleep in fear of Jasper escaping and seeking assistance.

"Chil', the answer is slick," Mama bellows. "Unda' ya clothes."

Alice pulls up her shift and looks at her chest plate. Jasper turns toward her, angling the plate up to examine it. The metal is printed with many different shapes and textures. He brushes his fingers over the indentations and figures.

"I don't understand…" Alice mumbles.

"Do I wear it?" Jasper asks.

"Oh! Yes, do we switch the metals? I hadn't thought of that—"

"No," Mother sighs. "Unda' ya clothes. The flesh of ya body."

Alice cocks her head to the side, eyes squinted in confusion, but Jasper understands. He eagerly strips his clothes and unabashedly removes his uniform until he stands naked in the center of the room. Mother nods eagerly and stands, examining his flesh.

She takes out her white chalk and begins to draw symbols. Alice hides her face, focusing instead on the books to her side with the same symbols.

"Alice, remove your clothing or I shall do it for you. I have no time for your timid behavior when the cavalry left this morning." He pulls her from the couch and throws her shift to the floor. "Undo the hook on the plate and prepare yourself."

"No!" she screams. "Mama, there has to be another way!"

"Chil', strip down and begin markin' ya skin," she says and focuses on stroking Jasper to readying form. He tries not to cringe and eagerly encourages his erection to will away the old woman.

In no time at all Jasper is naked, erect and prepared to separate from the She-Devil. Alice, timid and scared, has backed herself into a corner, eyes narrowed on Jasper's erection. It stands as a painful weapon designed to hurt her delicate hymen. Alice cups her groin through her skirts.

Jasper places his hands on his hips, glaring down at Alice. Of every time to be timid and shy now was not a good moment. Mother pulls Alice up and undoes her plate, but Alice fights her off, looking around frantically but her eyes always darting back to Jasper's thick, waiting erection.

She screams and covers her eyes, darting for the door. Mother pushes her hand out in a gesture to stop Jasper. The chalk has yet to dry and she chases after Alice, hauling her back into the room. Alice hides her face from Jasper, her bosom lifts in anger as Mother strips her of clothing.

Soon enough Alice stands nude in the candle light as Mother draws chalk symbols across her breasts and hips, spraying decorative pieces along her nether regions. Jasper finds himself eagerly awaiting his trip into her tight sheath. He licks his lips in anticipation.

"I be back in a good while," Mother says and leaves to the marshlands.

"Lie down and spread your legs. I will make it brief," Jasper coaxes.

She snaps her eyes up to Jasper and sneers. "You lie down and spread your legs."

He clenches his jaw but does as she commands. He spread himself on the small couch and hangs one leg over the arm while the other reaches to the floor. He puts his arms behind his head and awaits Alice's approach.

"Hurry," he says impatiently.

She steps over, her bare feet shuffling against the ratty floor. "Close your eyes," she says quietly.

He does as she commands and he feels her small body climb over his chest. She sits on his stomach and doesn't move for a few minutes. His feels the impulse to open his eyes, but keeps them closed in respect.

He hears her suck in a deep breath. "I don't know…"

Releasing his hands he grasps her hips and lifts her.

Alice closes her eyes, allows him to situate her and then she feels it. The tip of his erection is inside of her.

"It's done. You're free!" she shouts merrily.

Jasper's eyes crack open and he looks up at her, shakes his head once and pushes her hips down further. In a quick movement a stinging pain rips through her pelvis and she jumps backward. Her hands cup her groin and she falls to the floor.

Jasper sits up and pulls off the metal around his wrist that has begun to burn. In an instant his body is freed and the flow of independence surges through his muscles. He wipes away the chalky symbols and gathers his clothes.

"Where's Mama?" Alice sobs, her thighs clenched together.

Jasper ignores the weeping girl on the ground. His threats to kill her are floating into a void while he watches her pathetic form roll around on the floor. He has more important thing to worry about.

Once in the Bog he spots Mother and moves away, into the depths of the marshland while she goes to take care of Alice.

"Reaper!" Jasper yells once far away from the Bog and closer to the boat. "I'm free of witch magic. I need you."

The fog swirls and the Reaper pushes its body forward, startling Jasper. "Your time is coming to a close."

"I was trapped—the girl, she didn't…"

The Reaper's posture reeks of anger and annoyance. "No. Those women knew what they were doing."

Jasper releases a breath. "How much longer?"

"A few hours. I feel as though you should know what you have to be here for." The Reaper waves a shapeless hand and Jasper's eyes snaps shut.

Once open he finds himself in a field. Gun powder creates smog and the scent is so thick he cannot smell the blood from his allies and friends.

Jasper realizes immediately what has happened. A pained cry leaves his throat and Jasper is on the ground beside his friends. He holds the lapels to a man's coat, screaming at the corpse to live, to fight. The enemies are already gone, the General has left battle with the remaining survivors, leaving half dead men to moan and cry for help. Jasper crawls to them, kisses their foreheads as they slip off into death.

He pounds the earth, his fists breaking twigs and his skin abraded by rocks. His head presses into the mud and he cries unabashedly. All he had planned in the afterlife has become ruined, and his friends are gone, his General shaken and heading into enemy territory.

"I change my mind, Reaper," he snaps. "I'll kill them all! All who did this will die, and then that monstrous woman."

The Reaper leaves and Jasper takes off in blind fury. He finds the celebrating platoon and slaughters without mercy. Men plead with him; speak to God as he uses their weapons against them. He slashes bodies until blood covers his gray coat. Jasper screams revenge, tells them no man will kill his countrymen and live to tell the tale.

He finds himself blood drunk once everyone has stopped breathing and his body moves on instinct to find the woman who caused all of his problems. The world rushes by in a flurry of movement and the wind stings his eyes like snake venom. The lust has consumed him, more than the murderous streak that bled through him for his country, for his mother on her deathbed while his father yelled at her to fold his slacks. Jasper's painful human memories seek to destroy just as much as his corpse begs to run.

It takes little time for Jasper to realize that he's killed his sworn enemies and only has one person left. He feels empty, yet his strength is depleting knowing the wench is still alive. Had it not been for her he would have saved his general, would have procured victory.

The Bog is familiar, a homely feeling settles through him and he easily finds the small house sitting in the middle of the marsh. Juju sits outside, animal skull in her leather hands and gasps as she sees him. Jasper has no qualms with the woman. Sure, she placed ridiculous notions inside Alice's mind, but he blames that little witch.

He pushes her to the ground, throwing her white chalk to the mud where it sinks quickly. She yells after him, only to be stuck under a thick tree limb. Jasper moves inside the house, locking the door tightly behind him.

Alice is curled up on the couch still. Her hands are tucked between her thighs and her face is drawn. She glances up, notices the change in his demeanor and goes back to staring at the wall. Jasper is angered by her blatant disregard of his roaring fury. She should be trembling in fear, begging him not to hurt her again.

"Go ahead. Do whatever you want to. Won't change anything, though," she mumbles and pulls a thick blanket down from the back of the couch. A plume of dust floats past Jasper and he is kneeling beside her in an instant.

"I said I'd kill you," he snaps. His fingers wrap around her narrow neck. "I could crush you, destroy you right here."

"Do it."

"I will."

Alice swallows; his fingers grasp her tighter, stopping the movement. Her eyes open a little wider and her sudden emboldened attitude slips away. She jerks her head back and Jasper grasps harder, then releases.

Alice grips her neck with one hand and sits up. Jasper grabs one of the many carved bones from the wall of the room and points it at her. Jasper was never one for theatrics, but after the deaths of his countrymen, the loss of his dignity and the final knowledge that death is looming over his head, he finds the need to drag this out.

"J-just get it over with," Alice stutters. "But leave Mama alone."

"What makes you think she'll be spared? Isn't she the one who convinced you that you're some kind of voodoo woman? I should force you to watch me kill her."

Alice grabs a glass jar and throws it against Jasper's hard chest. The bottle breaks and with an acrid smell, his clothes disintegrate where the liquid splashes. He becomes more infuriated. His clothing—given to him by his country—is burning.

He impales the shaved animal bone into her stomach, weakly satisfied by the short shriek that leaves her throat. Alice looks up at him, mouth ajar, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. She touches the bone and attempts to back away, but perhaps the pain is too much for she remains in one spot. The image of his maddened face is the last she sees as she dies from blood loss.

Jasper steps over her crumpled body, minutes away from death. He doesn't want to watch, knows instantly that she is done for.

--

The Grim Reaper sits precariously on its pedestal just below the gates of Heaven and Hell. Jasper Whitlock crawls through the gray muck and collapses on the ground in front of it. His face is one of defeat and anguish.

"Have you completed your earthly tasks?" It asks.

Jasper nods once, then drops his head to his hands. "If I didn't kill those bastards I'd be with my fallen men."

"There was so solidification of that promise."

"Is it really better than going directly to Hell? At least I had a fighting chance… now I have ruined it. I'll never join my mother, never see her smiling at me."

"Think not of what could have been, but of what will be," the Reaper consoles him. It has never felt attachments to those it undertakes, but it has always found that every soul needs peace.

"I suppose you're right," he laughs humorlessly. "At least I managed to kill that wench. Perhaps if I am lucky her perpetrator will die in that Bog as well."

The Reaper says nothing. It opens the gate and waves an arm where flying monsters wait to take him in. The Reaper wants so badly to be in Jasper's place. Hell could not be worse than purgatory.

Jasper stands with a settling dust, wipes his pants and salutes the Reaper. For a moment it is stunned and does nothing, and then, slowly, the Reaper salutes back. Its shapeless hand touches the slab of flesh on it forehead and drops back.

Jasper walks forward, embracing his death with the elegance and finesse of a well molded soldier.


End file.
